Silly Short Story #3

WHEN HIS HAIR WAS CUT

091208

By Simon J Tatt

King Chortle elevated himself by twelve inches or so in his throne by placing an old Dagwood sandwich under his behind. His new viewpoint allowed him to look out over the dining hall and spot the young troublemaker with the long hair in the far corner.

“What on earth is that scallywag doing down there?” expostulated the monarch, flinging tomato sauce at the Duke of Cornwall in his hurry to make his point which had required the king to carry out a rather overdone sweeping action with his giblet.

“No idea Your Highness,” answered the duke, licking red stuff off his chin and shaking out his enormous cuff, into a bronze spittoon handily positioned on the floor next to the king`s red leather shoes. The shoes were pointed up at the end, like a squirrel`s tuft.

“I can never understand why that young ignoramus with long hair is always seated in the corner far away from authority.” By this stage the Duke of Cornwall was growing accustomed to the rapid and flamboyant arm movements of His Highness and was ducking rather expertly. Still, splatters of condiments from all corners of the earth were finding their way onto the cloaks and robes of the seated royalty as King Chortle ranted on about the `surfer dude` in the far corner of the Great Hall.

In these early times of round tables and stone toilets, jousting and pig`s heads on platters, the more you have the less you own. A bit like nowadays i suppose, what with credit and all.

“That silly noisy chap with the dreads is really annoying me.” Screeched the king, tucking his dewlap into the top of his bovver boots. Strains of Bob Marley and The Wailers drifted across the hall.

“I believe he is the son of that king with the big beak from the biblical lands, what`s his name ….. oh yes …. King Heron,” mumbled the monarch rather dejectedly.

” Uuuuuh… I think it`s King Herod sir,” corrected the court jester, sprinkling more sugar on his rhubarb.

“Yes yes, i suppose so.” King Chortle would often give in to suggestions made by jesters and other merry folk, simply because they wore brightly coloured clothes and the king longed to wear pink. If only he could confide in someone.

All across the land people from the swamps the hills the castles and the tortoise breeding centres would gather to cheer on Son of Sam, the long-haired surfer dude, who always sat at the very back of the Great Hall. He was very good at two things: Hanging ten on a surfboard and holding up broken buildings.

His surfboards were usually made of compressed cow dung and were coated with bees wax and he would sometimes sell them to raise money so that he could repair his motorcycle – the first in the world which had red with silver handlebars. Spares were scarce.

Every so often an earthquake would rumble through medieval times and wobble some of the less solidly built structures and like jellys, they would get cold and wiggly and then just fall over.

Son of Sam would hoik his knapsack over his shoulder, pack his trusty dung board and head off into the rubble to find a broken building to hold up. With long golden locks trailing from his none too wise head, he would wedge himself under a fallen construction and support it until the medieval rescue teams had cleared away the last of the serfs.

On a particularly nasty day King Chortle armed only with a pair of golden scissors, used mainly for cutting ribbons when opening buildings on state occasions, sidled up to the lad and whilst he was supporting a structure filled with traders, cut his hair off in a fit of royal jealous rage. King Chortle had always wanted long hair and he had always wanted to wear a pink scrunchie. As a result of the king`s actions, Son of Sam`s strength failed him and the stock market collapsed. The king lost a lot of money ….. and pork.

THE END

This Silly Short Story #3 entitled “WHEN HIS HAIR WAS CUT” is copyrighted to the author, Simon J Tatt. No persons may reproduce any part of the story in any way for the purposes of financial gain or for any other reasons without the express permission of Simon J Tatt. Law 6785/67 of the Writers Code 2009 protects the above mentioned work and any infringement thereof will result in a fine of $20 000 and/or a jail term of between 5 and 7 years.

Simon J Tatt

My birth date is in the year of the Tiger (water). I live in South Africa. I was born in England but relocated to SA with my family when i was 6. They wouldn`t let me row across in my own boat so i joined them on board the Pendennis Castle in March 1970. This blog is an expression of the interests i have in life. I am inspired by many events and situations, places and people.
I once tried writing seriously but realised after the first paragraph that this wouldn`t be happening. Since then, i have created characters like Bof Jan, who is a simple chap living in the Free State in South Africa in the 70`s/early 80`s. Other characters and situations pop into my head and appear on this web page. I write music as well and some of my songs will be posted here in the near future. I enjoy eating avocado pears, sausages, feta cheese, pita bread, garlic, sliced ham and rum `n raison ice cream. I believe that most world leaders are men and are psychopaths and that women should be given a chance now to get things straightened out. I wish all bullets and bombs would stop working from tomorrow morning at 7am (03/03/2010). People on Earth should put nature first from now on and not kill off plants and animals simply because they don`t care about the state of the planet...we`ve only got one to live on. My favourite quote is from Hunter S Thompson and it goes like this ..."Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming `Wow! What a ride!`"